18 Months Later
by ladybleugonewilde
Summary: What happens to take Ron and Hermione from friends with a burgeoning romance to a smug married couple 19 years later? One thing's for sure, it was a journey of many steps. This story focuses on one...18 months after the final battle. Spoilers ahead!


18 Months Later

From her lounging position on the couch, Hermione had only to look up from her book in order to catch her mother's light form trotting purposefully down the stairs. She disappeared through the archway into the kitchen for a few moments, leaving Hermione to glance upward as the quiet murmur of her father's voice finally caught her attention. It seemed to emanate from the ceiling above, lilting up and down in appeasing notes. Frowning in concern, Hermione noticed that her mother was wearing a freshly donned pair of office scrubs as she walked briskly back through the room, an armful of other assorted clothing slung over one arm.

"Are you leaving?" Hermione asked, placing her book facedown on the coffee table in order to follow her mother up the stairs.

"Hermione!" her mother exclaimed, startled. She turned on the steps to share a short smile. "Sorry, dear. I didn't see you there. What was it you needed?"

Hermione gestured to the overcoats, scarves and scrubs in her mother's arms. "Are you going in to work? I thought you were off today."

Mrs. Granger's expression cleared and she shared a self-deprecating smile with her daughter. "You know your father and I...we can never seem to say no to someone in need."

Hermione nodded. "What's happened?"

"Oh," her mother paused to click her tongue. "One of our patient's has waited overlong to have their wisdom teeth out. Now the poor dear's suffering from an abscess and we've had to schedule an emergency extraction. It should only take a few hours, and, what with you going over to the Weasleys' today—"

"Don't worry about me, Mum," Hermione rushed to assure her mother. "I'll be fine. Is there anything I can do for you before you go?"

"No, thank you, dear. We should be leaving shortly." Mrs. Granger turned to finish rushing up the stairs.

"All right," Hermione answered, smiling complacently as she descended the stairs. "I'll try to keep out of your way in the meantime."

Mrs. Granger turned at the top of the stairs and looked down at Hermione with a teasing glance. "I wish you could say the same of our lazy-bones, Mr. Crookshanks. He's snuggled up to my favorite chenille throw again and refuses to relinquish it!"

Hermione laughed. "Well, at least he didn't make a bed of your favorite jumper this morning." She smoothed the soft front of the article in question, plucking a stray ginger hair from the hem. "I love the old boy dearly, but his shedding is a nightmare!"

Her mother started to chuckle when another thought seemed to strike her.

"Actually, Hermione, I'd appreciate it if you could clear the dishwasher before you go."

"Yes, Mum," Hermione responded, thinking that it was much more pleasant to put clean dishes away than to handle the scuzzy ones.

Mr. Granger called out indistinctly from the bedroom at that moment and Mrs. Granger waggled her fingers at her daughter in parting. "Must dash!"

Hermione chuckled to herself and stepped back into the living room. A strong wind rustled the glass of the front window and she glanced in its direction. Even with a fire crackling happily in the grate, the chill pervaded the room with a subtle caress. She was glad to be wearing her snuggly warm jumper, the one with sleeves that covered her hands to the knuckle and made her feel dainty and feminine. A secretive smile bloomed on her face as she recalled the number of times she had changed its color with the flick of a wand in order to wear it as often as she liked without drawing anyone's complaint.

The sound of her parents moving around upstairs increased, motivating Hermione to action. She decided quickly that it would be best to get her kitchen duty out of the way before she forgot. Then she could curl up on the couch with her book until Ron arrived to take her to the Burrow.

In the kitchen, she made short work of transferring the sanitized dishes to their respective cupboards and drawers. A movement from the corner of her eye caught her attention as she crossed in front of the sink and she glanced up at the window. She could see the shrubbery, which hedged the back garden, sway in the wind, tossing its branches over the top of the solid, dark brown enclosure. The gate rattled on its hinges, adding a soft disruption to the near silence of the room, as the house settled.

Hermione turned back to the archway as her parents clambered down the stairs and walked towards her.

"Bye, Honey!" her mother chirped briskly before pulling her daughter into a quick hug.

Hermione returned the tight squeeze and whispered goodbye as her mother opened the side door and stepped out into the blustery winter morning.

"Don't forget to lock up before you leave," her father added, struggling to button-up his overcoat before following her mother out the door. He paused on the threshold to give Hermione one last look.

"Dad!" Hermione chided, meeting him at the door to press a kiss to his cheek. "I'll only be at the Weasleys' for a late supper. You know that I'll be back in time to spend Christmas here with you and Mum properly."

His stare turned solemn as he reached out with one hand to stroke her hair like he used to do when she was still a child.

"It's so good to have you home," he said quietly, "to _be_ home. We have told you that, haven't we, Hermione?"

"Only a hundred-and-one times today!" she joked, reaching up to squeeze his hand. "And I'll be here to listen to you for another thousand. But, if you don't leave now, that emergency abscess patient is going to have a conniption."

"Duty calls!" Mrs. Granger sang from the open window of the family car.

"Yes, dear," Mr. Granger answered with the ghost of a smile. He glanced back as he reached the car. "Love you!"

"I love you, too," Hermione called before shutting the door. She watched from the window as he joined her mother in the car and they left for the office. She rubbed the gooseflesh from her arms. Everything felt so normal now. They were a happy family once again.

Only a year had passed since Hermione and Harry had found and collected her parents from a town in South Australia. She looked back on that time with only a slight sense of regret.

After the final battle, the trio had banded together with the Weasleys to mourn and regroup. It had been a contradictory time, filled with triumph, grief and confusion. Harry had seemed most struck by events.

"Can it really be over?" he would often ask his friends.

They never knew exactly how to respond.

For a while, it was easier to let the surviving members of the Order decide what their next steps should be. There were so many projects for able-bodied witches and wizards to tackle in this period of reconstruction, so much to conceal from the Muggles and so many who required a proper burial. They all found themselves feeling torn between a sense of duty to the wizarding world at large and to their own personal lives.

After a period of reflection, Hermione found that she could no longer put off the search for her parents. It was too hard to see the Weasleys every day and not think of the family she had once known. She broke the news to her boys at the close of the month, hoping that they would somehow be able to accompany her in the search.

Harry, too, longed for a break. He was an honorary member of the family and outsider all at the same time. He wanted to comfort, but did not know how; he wanted to belong, yet estranged himself from their clan every day. Uncertainty nearly overwhelmed him as he contemplated what to do with Grimmauld Place and where he should eventually make his home.

To make matters more complicated, Ginny and he had started to reconnect romantically but they had yet to act on these feelings, which made living together in such close quarters awkward. Hermione, herself, had begun to feel the impropriety of it as well, as she continually fought the temptation Ron represented. They were together, but not _together_. It didn't seem right to think of _that_ when George was still adapting to life without a twin and Mrs. Weasley insisted on referring to them all as, "the last of her children."

The time had definitely come to move forward and, subsequently, away from the Burrow. At least, it was time for two of them.

The search for her parents was an adventure that would once again divide their trio, but not necessarily for the worse. Unable to leave his grieving family for such an unpredictable duration of time, Ron had stayed behind to join the industrious witches and wizards, like Neville Longbottom and Professor McGonagall, who were rebuilding Hogwarts. It was an honorable parting, which only increased Hermione's desire to find her parents quickly and gave Ron a sense of purpose, as well as an obvious distraction, while she was gone.

Hermione had always intended to return in time for Christmas, but the Fates were against them that year. She and Harry could not return before they found her parents, and so they had wound up celebrating a sparse Christmas in a hotel room. Hermione had not expected much upon opening her eyes that morning, so it was a delight actually to find a few packages nestled near the foot of her bed.

The first contained a box of Honeyduke's chocolate and oranges from Ginny, along with a note that hoped they would return home soon. The second was a small lithograph of an aboriginal painting that Harry had gotten for her during their trip. The last was from Ron. It contained a soft, magenta jumper with a large 'H' in the center. Her first Weasley jumper and it was the exact shade Ron's ears turned when he was embarrassed or mad. She had fallen in love with it instantly. In addition, tucked within its folds, she found a chocolate frog and a tiny note.

"Now you're part of the family," it read. "So hurry home. Love, Ron."

A week later, she and Harry finally had stumbled across her oblivious parents.

They had carved out a nice little niche for themselves in the coastal community of Adelaide, finding low-key positions at the local botanic garden and Rundle Mall. It had taken some complicated wand work on Hermione's part, and a lot of patience on Harry's, but the duo had finally restored the memories of their life back in England to her parents.

They found it to be quite a shock, recalling their previous life as dentists, by profession, and parents (to more than just a clever, though slightly unattractive, ginger cat). However, after a decent amount of coaxing, Harry and Hermione finally returned to England with the Grangers in tow. It had taken a few more months to establish their new dentistry in a location not far from their old offices. Thus, after six months of diligent work, many of their previous clientele had already returned to the Grangers's care.

Had it really only been a calendar year since they had all returned to their lives, Hermione wondered, and only 18 months since the final battle, which had claimed so many more?

She was happily distracted from this grave reverie by the distinct sound of a loud pop from the back garden, which heralded the apparition of a witch or wizard.

"Ron!" she exclaimed, as she opened the door, instantly recognizing the familiar redhead who was busy extracting himself from the tall shrubbery near the back gate. "You're early. We aren't supposed to be leaving for the Burrow for another two hours."

Ron finally managed to reach the doorway with only one or two remnants of a broken twig left clinging to his dark gray hoodie. Nervously, he patted down his clothes and mussed his hair before shoving his large, work-reddened hands into the front pocket of his shirt.

"I know," he replied, stooping slightly to scan the room behind her. "But I missed you," he added, leaning in to kiss her lightly on the mouth.

Hermione fought hard not to smile, but failed.

"Well, now that you're here, you should probably come in from the cold," she replied, holding the door open invitingly wide.

Ron's expressive mouth turned up in a half-smile as he eagerly crossed the threshold. His eyes gave her a thorough once-over.

"I know I'm early, but why aren't you dressed?"

Hermione raised an eyebrow, looking down at her clothed body emphatically.

Ron rolled his eyes.

"No, I meant, where's your jumper? Mum'll have kittens if you show up in anything else."

Hermione glanced down and fingered the blue jumper she was presently wearing.

"Isn't this one nice?" she hedged archly.

"Yeah," he said, drawing the word out to his zenith as he rocked back on his heels. "But it's not the pink one Mum made for you."

Hermione stepped toward the cupboard nearest the kettle and reached inside.

"Magenta, Ron," Hermione corrected, her voice slightly muffled. "It's magenta. Regardless of which, I thought your Mum wouldn't mind if I . . . tea?"

Ron sniffed at the tin she held up for his inspection before shaking his head. "None for me, thanks. And, believe me, she'll do more than _mind_ it. Besides, what's the difference?"

"Between pink and magenta?" Hermione asked, putting the tea back in its cupboard.

"Yeah," he replied, now leaning insolently against the counter.

Hermione frowned slightly in concentration as she considered her words.

"Well, one can be rather pretty, in a subdued way," she said while absently fingering a packet of crisps, "like a rose or the early morning sky. But the other is fairly bright…almost electric, in fact, and screams for attention." She met his gaze with an uncharacteristically shy look. "I'm not sure that I'm ready for that kind of attention."

Ron lifted the edge of his hoodie to reveal the hem of his maroon jumper.

"At least it's not maroon," he muttered, moving so that Hermione could scrounge through the lower cupboard by his leg, "paired with ginger hair. Besides, you look good in all sorts of colors…and, whenever you open your mouth, you have everyone's full attention. So, I reckon it'd be a piece of piss, really."

Hermione ignored the instinct to admonish his phrasing and accepted the clumsy compliment with a smile. Standing with a rounded tin in her hands, she gazed at Ron flirtatiously.

"Maybe I like ginger paired with maroon," she teased, reaching up with one hand to feather her fingers through his fringe.

His hand caught hers and held it softly against the counter.

"If so, you must've taken a boomerang to the head while you were out in Australia," he muttered gruffly, but not before a flush of pleasure flooded the bridge of his nose and the tips of his ears in the most endearing way. "Either way, you've got to wear your jumper tonight. The alternative is right horrible, so don't even think about doing anything else."

Hermione cocked her head to side and mocked him with her eyes.

"Granted, I did see your Mum finish off Bellatrix," she murmured thoughtfully, "but she's always been lovely to me. So…I think I'll chance it."

She began to turn away, but Ron's hand fell heavily on her shoulder, halting her momentum.

"You must learn from the mistakes of others," he intoned gravely, trying to communicate something more with his eyes. "You can't possibly live long enough to make them all yourself. _Trust me_."

Hermione found herself lost in his intent gaze. She lost eons in the time they spent caressing each other with languid eyes. He was so close she could almost smell him. She imagined that she could feel the heat from their bodies dancing between them, mingling in a way she longed to do. She inched forward. His head seemed to be dipping towards her, but she wasn't sure. She had just decided to lean forward herself when their hands suddenly twitched, causing one to quickly release with a jerk, knocking the tin on the counter to the floor.

Hermione knelt with an apologetic smile to pick up the fallen tin. The lid had opened from the fall, allowing two chocolate-dipped biscuits to crumble on the floor. Ron started to help her clean up the mess, but she handed him the tin instead. He placed it back on the counter as Hermione collected the loose bits with her hands and chucked them into the bin. As she turned back to Ron, she found him, once again with his hands tucked inside his hoodie, scanning the floor.

"Is Crookshanks around?" Ron asked when she finally caught his gaze.

"I think he's upstairs, napping," she replied, moving towards him with a series of hesitant steps.

"Oh."

They regarded each other silently for a moment.

"So," she continued, wiping her hands on a dish towel by the sink. "You shouldn't have to worry about tripping over him."

"No?" he croaked, as she stepped back in front of him. "Oh. Good."

Ron suddenly seemed to find the speckled countertop to be the most fascinating thing he had ever seen and gazed down at it steadily. Hermione took a deep breath and stepped back.

"Would you like to go to the living room and talk?" she asked, suddenly feeling awkward with nervous energy. She wondered if she was being too forward and found her hands mimicking Ron's by burrowing deeply into the front pockets of her jeans.

"Yeah," Ron said, looking toward the Granger living room with an obvious bit of trepidation. "Sure."

Although it was a challenge, Hermione carefully brushed past Ron to lead the way into the living room, careful not to pounce on him like the last, and first, time they had snogged.

The kiss they had shared on the night of the final battle had sustained her through many lonely nights. Through six months of searching for her parents in a foreign country and another six spent rehabilitating them at home. In fact, Hermione had passed the past few months with only a few snatches of her time spent with Ron, in tandem with Harry and Ginny, as they helped Harry settle into Grimmauld Place.

So much of that time had been spent focusing on the people around them, comforting their families and deciding whether or not to return to Hogwarts for their seventh year once its reconstruction was complete, that they had precious little remaining to dedicate to the development of their romantic life. This was the first Christmas they would spend together since the war. Their first, together, as a couple.

"So, where are your Mum and Dad?" he asked on the threshold, noticing that the room was empty.

"They had an emergency call to make," she explained, heading towards the couch. "Tooth extraction."

"Oh," Ron breathed, pausing just inside the archway to watch Hermione skirt the coffee table and take a seat on one end of the couch.

"It means they're pulling the tooth," she explained.

"I know that!" he grumbled. "What I meant is, well…they're gone?"

"Yes," Hermione answered shortly, growing frustrated with their continued distance.

Ron scratched absently at the nape of his neck. "So…we're alone, then?"

Hermione smiled slowly, finally cottoning on.

"Yes," she answered, rising to sit with one leg tucked beneath her. "It's just you and me. Here." She patted the seat beside her. "Wouldn't you like to sit down?"

Ron gulped and started to shake his head, but his brain had other plans.

"Okay," he gasped.

He walked over to the couch hesitantly and took a seat on the far side. Looking over at the bemused expression on Hermione's face, he seemed to rethink his position and scooted closer to the middle. They sat quietly for a moment. Just as Hermione was opening her mouth again to speak, Ron stood and crossed the room to look out the front window.

"When do you think they'll be back?" he asked, gazing intently outside as a cool breeze shuffled some fallen leaves along the front walk. His hand pulled the curtain aside with a death grip, making Hermione feel both amused and impatient.

"My parents?" She clarified, rising to join him at the window. "Not for a few hours yet. They'd only just left for the office when you arrived."

"Mm," he murmured in acknowledgement, trying to ignore the fact that she was now standing behind him with her small hand curling over his, urging him to release his grasp on the drapes.

18 months, Hermione reflected silently. It could be a long time for friends to be apart and even longer for lovers. But, what about lovers who had, up until this point, only shared one mind-blistering kiss? She threaded her fingers through his and looked up at his anxious profile.

They had only had a month together after the final battle before Hermione had to leave in search of her parents. And those had proved to be several weeks punctuated by grief and hard labor as everyone sought to begin the reconstruction of the wizarding world. There were buildings and institutions that needed to be overhauled from the inside out. That left little time for cuddling or passionate embraces.

Hermione returned to the present as Ron's hand trembled slightly in her grasp.

Her fingers gently rubbed the calluses Ron had earned helping to rebuild Hogwarts, stone by stone. Not everything could be charmed back into place after such a battle and the construction had taken a long time. It seemed like, with the completion of each new wall, a new ward had to be placed before they could start the next, making the work long and frustrating. Nevertheless, he had done it, had helped to rebuild their home away from home. A small part of Hermione thrilled to think that it was all – or, at least most of it – for her.

She moved closer to him, cradling his hand in the center of her chest while she placed a hard kiss on his shoulder, and felt him stiffen. She smiled, reckoning he was just nervous to be cuddling in her parents' home. She remembered the feeling well.

Much like the time spent on the Horcrux hunt, Ron and Hermione had only managed a few brief embraces, the chastest of kisses and a lot of furtive handholding since her return from Australia. Hermione knew that their feelings were as strong as ever, but the couple seemed to have fallen back into the familiar holding pattern that their many years of friendship had established. This was the first day, in all that time, that they had actually managed to catch some time together, completely alone, and she wasn't about to squander it by giving into nerves or a misplaced sense of modesty.

"So," she said, hiding her smile against his shoulder while she tucked their hands into his front pocket. "What dire fate will befall me if I don't wear your Mum's jumper tonight?"

Ron scowled down at her as she tickled his belly and then looked away, trying to hide his answering grin.

"You don't want to know."

"Oh, but I do!" she urged, scenting a confession on the verge of spilling out.

"It's not important," he insisted.

She scowled playfully.

"If I'm to 'learn from the mistakes of others,'" she mimicked pompously, "I must know what they are. And what the consequences of such actions were, of course."

Ron frowned into her piquant face but could not long defend against the intoxication of a mischievous Hermione. Groaning quietly, he finally cracked.

"Fine, just . . . fine! I'll tell you," he muttered.

She triumphed in silence until he began speaking once again.

Sighing, he said, "So, last year, well, last year was the worst, right? Our first without…without Fred, and we reckoned it would be best to spend the time honoring him rather than forcing a bit of cheer into the normal, er—"

"Festivities?" Hermione suggested, suddenly feeling sorry for teasing Ron about something so closely linked to his fallen brother. Ron must have heard the apology in her voice, because his own became less strident.

"Yeah. So, since it wasn't going to be a normal holiday, I thought I could get around having to wear my Christmas jumper. But you remember Mum last year. Afraid to let any of us out of her sight—"

"Wanting George and Percy to move back home," Hermione added, "and hating every moment you and Ginny spent at Hogwarts or Grimmauld without her."

"Exactly," he rejoined. Suddenly, picking at the chipped paint on the windowsill became terribly important and Ron stared down at his busy fingers with a kind of fascination. "Well, she wanted us to wear them all the more, because we're family."

"Mmhmm," she murmured when he paused overlong. She drummed her fingers against his belly in a soothing caress, waiting for him to continue.

He bowed his head.

"Well, I didn't want to," he admitted, almost petulant. "And I felt like, you know, we were all grieving, so why shouldn't we just be comfortable and get on with it?"

Hermione nodded her understanding against his shoulder, her brow knitting in confusion as she tried to predict where the story was going. Especially when she noticed that his ears had gone quite red, and he forcefully stilled her hand against his stomach.

"So, I didn't have it on when I came downstairs," he continued softly. "She told me to put it on and I told her to quit taking the mick."

"Oh, Ron, you didn't!" she groaned, burying her face in his arm.

"Did," he insisted, shamefaced.

"You fought?" she guessed.

"Oh, _yeah_," he answered with a bitter laugh. "Like blast-ended skrewts." His hand was stroking hers, there, in his pocket, warmed by the furnace of his abdomen. "Told her I'd never wear another one of her jumpers, and what did it matter? Fred wasn't coming back and nothing short of a blood ritual, with or without our bloody Weasley jumpers, would change it."

Hermione squeezed him tightly, irrationally trying to absorb some of his pain.

"That was a bit harsh," she said quietly, "joking about dark magic."

"I know," he breathed, letting his head fall back with eyes tightly closed. He inhaled sharply. "You and Harry were gone. I don't know why I got so angry. I think I was just, you know, tired of feeling so torn."

"Because you wanted to be at home but with us too?" she guessed.

Ron nodded.

"Yeah," he finally said aloud, pausing to lean his arm against the window frame. "And I felt smothered."

Hermione started rubbing his back with her other hand.

"That's understandable," she murmured.

He nodded but got lost, staring out the window again.

"So," Hermione began after a long pause, "did she have the honor of hexing your bits off or did your Dad have a prior claim?"

He gave a surprised bark of laughter.

"No," he answered, "they wouldn't want to incur _your_ wrath, after all."

She poked him in the tummy for his cheek but he only laughed.

"Well?" she urged.

He rubbed his hand over his face.

"She did hex me a bit," he admitted, coloring up once again.

Hermione cocked her head to the side with a slow-growing smile. "How?"

He groaned softly.

"Hexed the jumper right onto my body with a sticking charm," he answered quickly, pausing as she began trembling with suppressed laughter. "It's not funny! Bloody thing wouldn't come off for over a week and we were still working at Hogwarts. All the blokes at the build site still bring it up!"

Hermione's giggles finally burst free and only stopped when he moved to extract himself from her grasp.

"Oh," she cooed, pulling him back, "my poor Ron. What could they possibly have had to say about it?"

"It's not important," he muttered, turning around to look across the room at the fireplace.

Hermione followed his gaze and spied the tiny bunch of mistletoe that dangled over the mantelpiece that he seemed to have missed. She sighed in anticipation. They were _long_ overdue for a decent snog.

Catching up his hand in her own, she urged him to look down at her.

"Tell me," she demanded, and he could deny her nothing with his hand tucked up close against her chest.

"Remember when you got back from Australia," he whispered, "and we were catching you up on what you missed?"

"I think so," Hermione said, frowning slightly. "Like, Percy driving Lee Jordan crazy over who would help George at the shop and Luna recommending that your mother bathe in a concoction of pumpkin juice and gnome manure to ward off umgubular slashkilters, or some such ridiculous creature?"

"No. Well, yes," he answered swiftly. "But, more importantly, do you remember the bit about Bill and Fleur?"

"About Fleur announcing her pregnancy?"

"Yes!"

"Oh, is that why you all said it was the one announcement that saved Christmas? Because it distracted your Mum from—"

"Yes, yes, yes," he interrupted impatiently. "Well, by the time we made it back to the build site, what with half of the team knowing someone who was a guest at Mum's party, everybody was going on about the ever-increasing Weasleys."

Hermione's eyes nearly crossed in confusion.

"Okay. And I know that must have been…strange for you. But what has that to do with—"

"Everybody kept asking about the jumper, right?" he pressed. "Kept saying that we'd shared a dorm and they weren't likely to forget my name, so why was I shoving a reminder in their face all the time? Or, with the new Weasley on the way, was I just trying to remember my own name?"

Hermione scrunched her nose in disdain.

"Well that's just stupid," she said.

"Yeah, I reckon so," Ron deadpanned, "which is probably why Ginny told them I was just trying to get Bill and Fleur to name the baby after me by reveling in a bit of family pride."

Hermione scoffed loudly, at a loss for words.

"But, I mean, what sense does that make?" she sputtered. "Victoire isn't even a boy!"

"Not. Helping," he gritted out, pulling his hand back in a pout. But Hermione wasn't about to let the afternoon dissolve into another stupid fight. After all, it was 18 months later and they still hadn't had a second snog. How much longer could she be expected to keep her hands off her sweet, and secretly sensitive, boyfriend?

With a determined expression on her face, she ducked under Ron's arm, draped it across her shoulders and wrapped her arms around his waist.

"You do realize," she teased, tucking her head against his chest, "that, with its many honorary and real members, the Weasley family might very well soon outnumber the wizarding world, which means that the Weasley jumper will soon be a staple of fashion and only the ridiculously uncouth will be without one."

His chest rumbled with what might have been a chuckle, but Ron only answered with a noncommittal grunt.

"Picture it," she insisted, raising her head to gaze up at the underside of his jaw. "It's the one thing no Malfoy can buy. Well, besides a sense of decency, of course."

This won a slow smile from her lean, snuggle-worthy man and Hermione could stand it no longer.

"Kiss me," she demanded, forcing him to smile full-fledged by lifting her face to his and offering up her puckered lips.

Ron leaned back in her embrace and giggled nervously.

"What, here?" he asked teasingly, casting a nervous glance at the window.

"Or on the couch," Hermione offered breathily, rising up on her tiptoes to bring her mouth closer to his. "We could even draw the drapes."

"Hermione!" he exclaimed, breaking free of her hold. He backed away nervously, unintentionally heading straight for the fireplace.

"What?" she exclaimed.

His face looked strained.

"Your parents—"

"Are nowhere in sight, Ron Weasley!" she interjected, placing her hands on her hips. "It's just you and me, a nearly roaring fire and a comfortable couch. So, what? Are you suggesting you'd rather go up to my room?"

"What?" he squeaked. "No! No. I just . . . doesn't this feel weird to you?"

"Weird?" she echoed in confusion.

"Or, I don't know, wrong?" he tried to clarify. "Wrong to, _you know what_, here?"

Hermione raised her eyebrows in shocked dismay.

"Don't you _want_ to kiss me?" she asked, exasperated.

Now it was Ron's turn to look upset.

"No," he fairly whispered, cringing a bit at the reedy sound. "I mean, _yes_. Obviously. It's just," his voice grew hoarse, "this is your parents' house, you know? That's where your Dad sits to read the paper while you and your mum knit on the couch. And that's the coffee table where you play Muggle board games together while you sip hot tea and talk about your Gram or the rights of House Elves and all that. Doesn't it feel sort of—"

"Disrespectful?" she supplied. When he nodded, shoving his hands back into the front pocket of his hoodie, Hermione closed the distance between them. "No, Ron. It's not."

She took his hands. When he opened his mouth to argue, she signaled for silence with a slowly arched eyebrow. She placed his hands on her hips and then settled hers on his shoulders, urging him to listen to her.

"Ron," she breathed, her voice full of warmth and affection, "I know how you feel. There were several times, after the final battle, I thought about this. It was sheer torture living at the Burrow, wanting to be a good guest to your mother and also wanting to snog you senseless at every opportunity."

Ron's eyebrows rose in surprise at this admission shortly before his hands firmed on her hips.

"Really?"

"Of course!" she insisted. "But it wasn't right at the time. And, believe me, when the time was finally right, there were several dark corners in Grimmauld Place I would have loved to have made use of if we'd found a single moment to ourselves."

"Bloody Harry and Ginny," he muttered playfully, making her laugh.

"Yes," she agreed, stroking the nape of his neck. "You know, my parents love and trust you almost as much as I do. And, more importantly, they trust our judgment."

She covered his mouth briefly with her fingers when he would have interrupted her.

"Now, as a former prefect," she said softly, "I think I might be trusted to enjoy a short snog with my boyfriend on the couch." She blushed slightly as she attempted to look seductive. "And, as for your sensibility on the matter, I promise not to paw you too much while we're in my parents' home."

"Too much?" he asked softly, hopefully.

She pulled him toward the couch.

"Well, you have to allow me a little fun," she teased, easing back onto the couch. "But I promise to stop if you say when."

"_If_, Hermione?" he asked, trembling slightly as she draped herself over him awkwardly. They shared a warm glance.

"Well," she replied, curling a hand around the nape of his neck, "you know I hate to let you get a word in edgewise."

"I reckon I can live with that," he whispered carefully as her mouth grew close, until he could finally press his smile against hers.

-0.0.0.0.0-

It seemed, far too soon, they were forced to recall the time.

Ron frowned slightly as he turned his head, trying to place an unfamiliar sound.

"Hermione," he asked slowly, "do you hear that?"

Hermione distracted him from the bleating sound of her alarm clock, which was wafting downstairs, by pressing a series of tiny kisses to the underside of his jaw. When he insisted on squirming a moment later, she sighed and sat up, pulling away from his warmth.

"That's just my alarm," she murmured, stretching her arms above her head languidly.

Ron sat up with a start.

"Bloody hell! The time." He leapt to his feet and ran his hands through his hair anxiously. "How much time do we have?"

Hermione smiled wryly and watched his movements with lazy enjoyment. "Don't worry, Ron. I set it for the quarter of the hour."

"Quarter of the hour!" he exclaimed, "and you're not even dressed? What are you waiting for? Are you trying to be late?"

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

"Ron, there is plenty of time! We can leave for the Burrow in the next five minutes. Just let me check my hair—"

"And the jumper!" he insisted, rushing her up the stairs as she went to her room to turn off the alarm. "Don't forget the bloody jumper."

He started in the doorway as she swung back towards him, wand in hand.

"Now, Hermione…"

He edged backwards cautiously only to be stopped by her short laugh.

"What?" he asked suspiciously.

Turning to her mirror, she quickly patted down her hair before facing Ron once again. With a flick of her wrist, she confidently said, "Finite incantatem."

Slowly, the present color drained from her jumper to reveal the well-worn magenta base with a prominent 'H' at its center.

"Ready," she chirped, enjoying the look of mixed admiration and disgust on Ron's face.

"Blimey!" he muttered, as he followed her down the stairs. "Why didn't I think of that?"

Hermione beamed up at him.

"You were absolutely distraught in my absence and couldn't think of anything beyond snogging my brains out?" she suggested brightly.

Ron cracked his trademark, wobbly smile and pulled her close.

"Or at least your pants off," he teased, making her giggle.

She rewarded him with a quick kiss before responding again.

"Give it another 18 months," she murmured, before apparating them both out of sight.

-0.0.0.0.0-

Author's Note: I confess! I took a great many liberties with future events in this story and accept that not all of my suppositions are sound, but that doesn't have to necessarily mean they're wrong, does it?

In all honesty, I think that sometimes it's less important to be perfectly accurate/canon than to capture the proper feelings in a story. Also, I'm lazy. (There's only so much research a person can do, after all.) And trying to operate within such rigid constraints (explained and unexplained timelines, name spelling and trying to make dialogue seem less out-of-character when we're not entirely sure how they'll transition from burgeoning lovers to a smug married couple) makes my head want to explode. Therefore, I hope you'll forgive me if I'm not 100 percent on point with this story and still manage to find something you like about it. I just wanted to have good, old-fashioned, fluffy fun with it!

Despite these admitted flaws, I hope you enjoyed it.

Please review.

(Even if you fear your brutal honesty will scald my skin right off—I'm a lot tougher than I purport myself to be ;)


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